


Hands On The Water

by orphan_account



Series: After Glow [1]
Category: IT, It - Stephen Kin
Genre: Afterlife, Depression, Major character death - Freeform, Not really full on relationships but childlike crushes, Portals (kinda), Richie's a shit but when isn't he?, Swearing, Violence, based more on the book than on the movie, duh - Freeform, fluff?, friendships! - Freeform, georgie's alive and going to stay that way, hurt comfort, i mean they sorta all do, stan's got powers!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-07 21:49:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12241275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A series of terrible accidents lead to the dissapearance of  two boys, who will not be found any where near Derry at all, but in fact, beyond the realm of no return. There is something bigger than a dancing clown to fear. Much bigger.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in about two hours so if you see mistakes, that's probably why. It's at this moment, uncertain when a schedual will be made or if one will even slip into existence, but if that changes, then I'll keep you posted. With out further delay, Hands on the Water. Thank you <3

Richie was the sort of boy who needed action in his life at all times. He hated it when things held still. He hated repetition and he hated silence. He needed noise and distractions. And when the world would not give his what he needed, he would create it! Noise was easy to make. He could just open his mouth and like magic noise would happen. Often times these noises got him into an immeasurable amount of trouble, but he lived. Action was a harder thing to make. He knew that when he spoke, he often made others mad at him and sometimes that would lead to the action of running from Henry and his stupid fiendish friends, but that was about as bad as it ever got. When he wanted action, he'd find himself wandering around the junkyard unknowingly playing hide and seek with Patrick who never knew he was there. 

But it had begun to rain early that July afternoon and his mother dismissed the very thought of him leaving the house in such terrible weather. She said something about not liking the way the lightning was striking. He didn't really know, he hadn't been listening.

“Richie, darling, I know you love adventure but being struck by lightning isn't an adventure you're likely to survive,” she grumbled after the seventeenth time he'd begged her to change her mind. As if on queue, a blinding bolt splintered the old and cracked road just outside of their house. The sound was exhilarating! The rocks were thrown around carelessly, they were shrapnel shards more than they were rocks. It reminded Richie of the little cartoons where the bad guy would blow up a train tunnel. Only less flashing red and yellow. His mother pouted.

“Now what if you'd been standing there? Go play upstairs. I just got you your prank kit and I haven't seen you so much as look at it! Off with you, go on now, off!” She giggled lightly as she shooed him away with an oven mit. 

Richie reluctantly obeyed. There just wasn't any point to a prank kit unless you were pranking someone. He couldn't very well prank himself now could he? He knew this only because he'd tried time and time again. And he'd learned the hard way, a phrase which here means; left him grounded from leaving his room unless it was to use the John or eat supper, not to prank his mother. Pranking his father was no fun either. He just rolled with it. There was no reaction at all. The man was a robot, Richie was sure of it. Thus, the appeal of the aforementioned pranking kit was about as appealing as eating a steaming pile of dog shit in Richie’s mind. 

His room welcomed him quietly. The creaking hinges whispered their sorrowful hellos and his bed stared at him in its blanket made mess, surly judging him for leaving it in such a distasteful state. His closet was puking with both cloths and old, forgotten toys. Richie wasn't sure why, but when he glanced at it he nodded in agreement. Why was a closet so relatable? He groaned loudly, hoping that his mother could hear just how unhappy he was. If she did, she was ignoring him. She was good at that. If she didn't ignore him, why, Richie would be spoiled rotten! Realizing that his little fit wasn't having any effect on his mother, Richie gave it up and moved to hunt down the prank kit his mother had mentioned. 

He wasn't entirely sure if it was hiding inside the hellscape that was beneath his bed or in the puking closet. He really didn't want to disturb either. 

There had been many times when both his mother and his father had complained about the state of his room. On a good day, you might have been able to see a fourth of the floor. But on any other day, you'd be up to your knee in clothes and whatever else Richie thought looked like it might be entertaining. How he managed to destroy it so bad was beyond his parents as he had kept himself outside for a vast majority of his summer. Often times his parents would bond over a glass of wine about how happy they were to stop at the one child. They weren't sure they'd be able to handle the stress of a second child. 

The way Richie saw things, the monster under the bed had to complete an impossible obstacle course in order to get out from beneath his bed, then it would have to try and find Richie amongst the mountain that was smothering him. His parents saw a mess; he saw guaranteed safety. His closet was no different. If he were to go hunting for that kit, he'd end up ruining everything! Then he'd have to fix everything before night fall and by then it might have been too late! Monsters are very quick you know. They only need one shadow to hide in. His parents just didn't understand. This fact didn't surprise him as Richie was certain that they'd never been children before in their lives. They say that they were but they were probably lying. Adults do that sort of thing all the time. Every now and again, he thought about cleaning up the mess and letting the monster out, maybe it would target his silly parents and not him. But that was a bad idea. Everyone knew that monster only ate kids! So the mess would just have to stay and that was that. 

He'd tried to find the kit regardless. He half hoped that it had been put at the top of the chaos. After spending a sold maybe twelve seconds of brief and uninterested searching, Richie gave up entirely. It was hopeless, a lost cause! He'd have better luck growing a second head before he found the damned thing!

“Mom!”

His voice fell down the stairs in a heap and echoed once it reached the parlor. His mother was in the kitchen, now weeping over another failed pie. She didn't understand how she managed to mutilate every pie recipe she stumbled upon. It was a gift. A sad, sad gift and she could only hope that she hadn't passed it down to her son. Maybe there was hope for him yet. Then again, she thought morbidly, wiping a tear from her cheek, it was Richie she was talking about. Not even god could save that boy.

“Child, I swear to god-!”

“Can I call my friends?”

She thought for a second. Those boys were good influences she did suppose and maybe befriending a girl would help him with his terrible manners. She hated the bill that would come after his little talks with his friends, but when he was in the phone, he was contained and controlled. There wasn't much he could do, the phone was connected to the wall by a cord that was so full of kinks and knots that it barely reached a foot away from the wall at all. And he loved talking so much, he'd actually stay in one place for hours. It was a blissful break that both parents learned to love, even when it came time to paying the bills.

“Fine, but keep it under an hour or we won't be able to replace your glasses,” she called back after a moment’s thought. Richie hissed out a pleased yes and darted down the stairs. His fingers flew across the numbers and he waited anxiously for the operator to transfer him over. 

He wasn't sure who he wanted to call first. He wanted to call Bill. Big Bill was always good for chucks, but chances were that he was playing in the streets with Georgie and wouldn't be around to answer. He could call Mike, but Mike liked to spend as much time as he could with his father, listening to the stories he had to tell. Bev was out of the question. Her father wouldn't take too kindly to the Tozier child calling again. If he called Eddie and his mom picked up, he'd never even get to talk to Eddie. She'd probably just hang up on him. Stan the man would too, purely out of spite. So Ben was really the only one most likely to answer his distress call. Unless he was outside building something. He likes to do that. But who in their right mind builds during such a storm? 

He listened to the operator for maybe only two seconds at most before the entire house’s power died. The lights shut off in a flickered zap, the phone dropped the attempted call in the middle of the operator asking for the number, and his mother let out a startled cry. Or maybe she was just weeping over her pie again, he couldn't be sure. 

“You alright, Ma?”

“I don't understand why your father married me, Richie, I just don't understand!”

Richie had to bite his lip in order to keep the laughter from stumbling from him. His mother probably wouldn't take too kindly to that. But he could see her perfectly despite the wall that separated them. She was probably hunched over the stove oven mitts set off to the side, her face in her hands, her hair falling like the rain outside over her shoulders, all the while she would be standing over the saddest excuse of a pie man has ever seen, and crying helplessly. What an odd mother, he thought bewildered. She really had no right to judge him. 

“Maybe you were his last option.” Shit, he hadn't meant to say that out loud, let alone loud enough for her to hear him. 

“Richie, go play outside!”

“But you said-”

“I said go play outside!”

Perhaps he should apologize to his dear sobbing mother. He hadn't meant to offend her, it was only a joke. But he couldn't let his mind linger on that for too long because if he did, she would change her mind and he’d be grounded! He ran to his door and threw on his raincoat and galoshes. 

The rain fell in sheets, hitting the ground with such a force it sounded like a thousand marbles were being dumped out into the floor over and over again. He could hardly see past his own front porch. He knew one thing for sure; if ever there was a better day to ride his bike, today was that day! Oh, his father would have a bird if he knew. Now this was exactly what he wanted, noise and action! 

Almost as soon as she’d sent him out did she realize her mistake. Richie was always the kid who got himself into trouble. She'd leave her house knowing that people would spot her and think, oh look, it's the mother of that trashmouth boy. For shame, woman, for shame! She went to every parent teacher conference knowing that the teacher would have a list of Richie’s so called accomplishments. She wanted to hide her face in embarrassment every time she went out in public. This became a ritual habit that formed into some strange parental instinct. It was this sort of voice in the back of her head. Now she knew when her son was going to do something worthy of a phone call that began with “do you have any idea what that daff son of yours is doing?” One could say that her mother senses were tingling. She ripped herself away from her pie and ran to the door, throwing it open as fast as she could.

“Richard Tozier, don't you so much as even think about riding your bike in this weath-”

“See ya, Ma, bye!”

She was too late. Again. She could do nothing but shout at him as he rode off. Oh joy, maybe today she'd get a call from officer Nells or maybe even the hospital! That would be fun. Sometimes she worried that her parenting skills mirrored her pie cooking skills. She shook her head sadly and went back inside to give the pie the proper burial it so rightfully deserved. 

Richie’s bike was a sad, fat potato with no friends compared to Bill’s silver. It was newer, fit him better, and more appealing to the eye, no doubt, and yet for some reason unknown to him, it rode the way you'd think a hooker reaching seventy would ride. Sloppy, tired, and without the enthusiasm it used to have. He loved it, no doubt he did, just like some poor fellow out there loved the hooker, but he always felt a pang of jealousy when he watched Bill fly like a rocket leaving him, and everyone else for that matter, in the dust. But the roads were slick and his tracks weren't able to get a solid hold on the asphalt. For once he was zooming. 

He couldn't see anything past the rain, and even if he could, he was going so fast that it was all just one giant blur, no color, no substance, a disgusting mix of brown and grey in an awful pattern he'd rather not look at anyway. Derry wasn't the prettiest of towns, after all. Especially not on days like this. Still, being able to see would have been helpful to figure out which street he was supposed to turn on. Normally this wasn't a problem, but he was speeding faster than normal and it threw him completely off. Hmmm. As an author, I'm displeased with how I wrote that sentence. Allow me, dear reader, to elaborate. What I meant to say was; He was speeding down the rain slicked streets, desperately searching for a street sign when his tire hit a curb and his bike threw him completely. Ah yes. Much better. Now then, carrying on...

His back tire flipped over his head and landed on top of him in an agonizingly heavy heap. The grass had saved him from any cuts and the mud cushioned his fall. For the most part at least. The bike, however, did some pretty nasty damage. He'd do doubt go home with a bruise roughly the size of an elephant's ass on his shoulder and a scrape across his back. 

 

He groaned in pain and held back the urge to cry. Richie Tozier didn't cry unless he stubbed his toe or the dog on TV died. And while he didn't cry, he did let out this pathetic wheezing scream of pain. He pushed the bike off of himself and rolled over. The rain splattered on his glasses like little glass beads. For a moment, he let the needle like drops rip apart his face. For a brief moment he wondered if this was what an acupuncture felt like. 

He huffed and slowly sat up. His back erupted in a roaring agony. He looked down to discover that he'd very sloppily tore the skin from his right knee and it was gushing. The skin was dangling like a flap by a small thin string of flesh. The rain made it sting like holy water on a possessed child. He'd seen that happen once. A little boy named Presley Charleson. He was ten when he and his siblings got baptized and only he screamed. Richie was convinced that he was a hell spawn. And maybe this was what it felt like to be in his shoes that weird April morning. He wanted to poke it. With a stick. Maybe he could keep the skin and use it to scare the shot out of Eddie! No, that was probably a bad idea. Eddie might not talk to him ever again if he did that. Bad idea, forget that idea. 

He glanced over to his bike that was now resting on its side with its back wheel still spinning. 

“Old sport, what have I ever done to you to deserve this?” 

For a moment, he was terrified that it would answer him back. Weirder things have happened. But it didn't. The wheel slowed to a stop. He got to his feet and pulled it up right. He wished briefly that Eddie had been with him at the time. Eddie was smart with directions like nobody else. He never need a map. He could get one glance around the area and just know where he was and how to get to every where from there. He'd just ask Eddie which way and Eddie would point. 

But Eddie couldn't be with Richie that afternoon, or the next. His mother had stricken again! He'd come home the day prior and sneezed. The worry ate away at his mother’s once smooth features and she began to pester him with thermometers and pills. A fever, she'd decided, a deadly fever. He was too sick to be playing today, and he'd be too sick tomorrow too! 

Now Eddie sat alone in his room staring out the window. A moth had gotten caught inside and didn't understand why on earth it was unable to pass through the glass and return outside. It bonked its little head against the window time and time again, determined to defeat this impenetrable force field and be free. 

Most kids didn't watch moths stupidly trying to escape. Most kids had posters or artwork framed and hanging on the walls to look at but not Eddie. His mother said that they were unsanitary and forbade him from ever owning such things. She forbade him from a lot of things. Because of this, his room was absent of even the smallest speck of dust, there were no carpets (they hold viruses that latch onto your feet!) and there was no toys to be seen. It was a very dull and suffocating room indeed. He had nothing better to do than watch sadly as the moth threw itself over and over again into the window. 

Now, as sick as Sonia thought her son to be, Eddie was in fact as healthy as could be. The phantom fever that had him caged was a figment of Sonia’s imagination, a trick she often used when she was scared that Eddie was becoming too adventurous. The day prior, Eddie had ridden home in his bike with a scrape on his elbow. He and Richie had been climbing trees trying to see who could get to the top fastest. Eddie’s hair stuck up in spikes due to the sap that coated not only his hair but his hands as well. Pine needles had gotten stuck in his shirt. He smelled like a boy for once. The thought of climbing alone terrified Sonia, now she had to worry about climbing trees, wit that wretched Richie Tozier boy too? She nearly fainted. Nearly. Had she fainted, she wouldn't have been able to protect Eddie from the fever she insisted he was sick with. 

“It was the trees, Eddie dear. They're the filthiest things on this planet. They're crawling with bugs and infection. You must promise me never again to climb in them. I'd hate to think of what might happen if you should!” She shouted this while sobbing. She could tell herself, and Eddie for that matter, time and time again that she was protecting him from the dangers of illness that lurked around every corner, but that wasn't the case. She hated Richie, hated all of Eddie’s friends really. She would do anything to keep him from them. For his own safety of course, always for him. But her form of protection was torturous for her poor and healthy son.

Eddie wished he'd stopped by at Richie’s house to shower up a bit and hide the evidence of that day’s fun. He didn't mind being locked up today all that much, it was rainy and cold and he was almost positive that if he did go outside today that he would wind up actually getting sick. But tomorrow was supposed to be a lovely day. Nothing but sun and gentle breezes. Richie had mentioned this new kite that he totally didn't find in the trash. He'd been looking forward to watching Richie try and get the ruined thing flying. Because Richie said that it totally didn't come out of a garbage can at all, and Richie never lied. That would be preposterous! 

But there would be no attempted kit flying. There would only be this bleak and depressing empty room. There wouldn't be Richie, Stan, Mike, or anyone else to be at his side to fill him with giggles and joy, there'd only be his mother to exaggerate his already out of proportioned anxieties. 

He felt less like a child and more like an old antique glass doll with every passing second. His eyes hardly blinked. They burned, but for some reason he didn't feel them. They watched the moth as it fell, weak and tired. It landed on his window sill and just stood there. Maybe it was trying to catch its breath or it was just taking a break. But it never did return to attacking the window. It walked a bit, trying to pull itself up to the window’s edge, but got heavy and sluggish with its movements before stopping altogether. It froze and sunk in on itself then and remained like that. Eddie didn't have to poke it with a stick to know it was dead. 

He pitied it and envied it. He was terrified that he was the moth and his mother was the window. He could try as hard as he might to slip past her strict and smothering care but she was impenetrable! He'd die here, supposedly sick, deprived of the freedoms most boys were given, and be forgotten. He'd die before he ever got to live. The thought saddened him. But now it wouldn't have to suffer anymore. It wouldn't have to try all for nothing. It could rest easy. Eddie wanted that. He wanted to be careless and free so very badly. Some small voice had told him years ago to give up on that dream, and he'd done so, although he didn't want to. 

Sad and bored, he pulled his blankets closer to his chin, but not too close because they trap and hold germs against his skin. But that wouldn't stop him from taking comfort in their warmth and he promptly slipped into a dreamless sleep. 

Al Marsh was also asleep. Beverly listened to her father snore from the other room. It was an awful sound, she'd decided. One that you could only ever hear in some scary movie. It was fictional almost. It sounded like the dying engine of some motor bike trying its best to get up and working again but just couldn't. She hated the sound, but she loved it at the same time. This meant that he was sleeping and wouldn't be there to bother her as much. That was always nice. But she hated how it was essentially some weird version of nails on a chalkboard. 

Every fiber of her being was screaming at her to use this blissful second of peace to run away and disobey her father’s wishes to remain indoors. She wanted to run wild and free in the pouring rain without a jacket, kicking her bare feet through the drowning streets. Her fiery red hair would be turned brown once it was thoroughly soaked. And when she shook her head, she'd look like a dog after it got a bath. Her dress skirt would cling to her knees and make walking a difficult task but she wouldn't care. Who needed to walk when you could dance? Maybe she could slip off to the barrens and see if any others would be there. Even if they weren't, she could just stand amongst the plants and inhaled deeply, basking in the smells that would reach her nose. It would be a peaceful afternoon. She hadn't had one of those in what felt like forever.

But she knew better. The second that she got near the door, her father would suddenly wake up and she'd get into trouble. Then she wouldn't be allowed to go play outside tomorrow. That freedom was such a treasure, she'd never risk losing it. Begrudgingly, she sat herself down on her worn out twin bed and just listened to the rain mix with her father’s struggling snores. It wasn't at all as wonderful as her imagination was, but she couldn't complain. She was being left alone, and tomorrow, she'd be able to see the other six, and that was worth the long and boring wait. 

Half way across Derry, Bill was doing exactly what Richie had predicted he'd be doing. He had taken Georgie out to their back yard with a couple umbrellas and was trying to make a small fort out of them. He was no Ben Hanscom when it came to building things, but it held fairly well nonetheless. Georgie was watching the water droplets fall into an accumulating puddle on the ground just beyond the fort’s protective reach. He turned to face his brother when he'd grown bored of the show.

“Why can't we race boats?”

“It's r-r-raining too heh-heavy. They’d sink.” Georgie scrunched up his nose at this matter of fact response. 

“Sticks then.”

Bill laughed lightly. He ruffled Georgie’s hair and gently pushed him to the side. Georgie tried to save himself by digging his hand into the ground, but the mud was slick and he fell instead. 

“Go find us st-st-sticks then.” 

Georgie smile wide and bright. He got to his feet, bumping his head against the umbrella’s wire top. He yelled out once and replaced the cry with laughter so that their parents would come out and investigate what they were up to. Finding a stick was easy. Finding two sticks nearly identical was not so easy. It was impossible even! He ran around their back yard looking like a headless chicken. Eventually, he just gave up on sticks and decided to settle for two pine cones. He ran back to his brother as fast as his little feet could carry him.

“Sticks!” He shouted proudly. Bill nodded before turning his attention to inspect what sticks Georgie had managed to find. He then immediately began to shake his head and frowned.

“N-n-n-n-no, Georgie, those a-ar-aren't sticks!”

“Sticks!” Georgie repeated because apparently Bill hadn't heard him the first time. 

Bill sighed heavily before taking one. “Fine. Sticks.” 

Georgie took Bill by the hand and lead him quickly from their barely functioning fort. Perhaps it was a good thing as it collapsed about four seconds later. The two boys hopped their own fence and rushed to the front of their house. 

“First one to juh-juh-Jackson street w-wins!” Both boys set their pine cones into the sloshing water collecting into the gutter. “Count it o-off Georgie!”

“One two three, go!” And off the cones went! For about two feet. They had inevitably collided into each other and got stuck in a small patch of dandelions that had managed to grow between the cracks. Both boys frowned at this. 

“Muh-muh-maybe they’d race b-b-b-b-better in the barrens.” Bill suggested weakly. He glanced at Georgie, whose face lit up with glee. Only Bill and his cool friends played in the barrens! They'd have to ask mom, of course, and chances were that she wouldn't let them go because of how heavy it was raining, but it was an honor to get invited alone. 

Georgie wasted no time darting inside to bother their poor mother who was sadly suffering from a hangover. She and Zack had a lovely night out the night prior and she, despite her better judgment, decided to remind herself what it was like to be a teenager again. Her body was very mad at her now. The slightest of sounds were as loud as thunder, the smallest lights were too bright to look at. So one could only imagine how awful it was when little Georgie threw open her bedroom door and began shouting. She wanted to start crying but was too dehydrated to summon any tears. She didn't even hear what he'd said. She was so eager to get him out of her room that she just agreed. Georgie erupted with a triumphant shout and rushed to give Bill the good news. 

On any other occasion, Bill would have hopped onto Silver and took off down the street with no regard for his safety or the safety of others whatsoever. However, he was with Georgie. If either parent spotted Georgie anywhere near Silver, Bill could find himself grounded until he was thirty five! So he chose instead to hold Georgie’s hand and walk him down to the barrens. 

Mike would usually spend days like today curled up between his two parents and listen to the two exchange stories from when they were his age. They'd sit near a small fire in the fireplace while munching on whatever they could find in the ice box. However, no thanks to the Bower’s relentless bullshit, Mike’s father was away to deal with some grown up things in court. His mother had tried to entertain her son as best as she could, but sleep took her by the hand and lead her away. Mike was free to do with his afternoon as he pleased. A large part of him thought that none of his friends would be able to play today due to the terrible storm, but he liked the barrens. They'd become as a sort of sanctuary for him. Even if no one was there, it was still a place of comfort, like a secondary home. He could be down there in a jiffy if he walked fast. 

Now Ben, Ben was already there. He'd been there for hours. It had dawned on him a while back that Henry and his questionably heterosexual group of goons weren't exactly a kind bunch of fellows. The losers needed a place to stay, somewhere that Henry wouldn't be able to find them. A club house. Trees were out of the question, he knew that much. Eddie’s mom would never let Eddie out of the house if she so much had thought about treehouses. This little fact of course built a strange issue for Ben. He wanted an underground bunker, and had eagerly began working on one, but the rain that was still beating down on everything within its reach had taught him that should he build one underground, he'd likely drown them all. Now he was stumped. But he did not remain so, at least not for long.

Often times when a creator of any kind is in dire need of inspiration, they look back through their memories. An artist may look through their old portfolio, an author may recall a childhood made short story, and a constructor may think back on some crazy things they'd made out of popsicle sticks and glue. That's not at all what Ben did. 

Ben was in the middle of dismantling his progress when his mind, bored to death, threw him through a whirlpool of memories. He suddenly found himself looking back on the day he'd first met Eddie and Bill. Henry had chased him for what felt like forever and he'd hidden himself amongst the brush to avoid their apparently blind eyes. This lead to the death of the dam that would later get rebuilt and lead them all into trouble, but that wasn't what mattered. What mattered to Ben in that moment was how he'd hidden himself, and that, my darling readers, was exactly the spark of inspiration Ben needed to set ablaze his working mind. 

They could have a ground level place to hide surrounded by the wild plants. It could be partially under ground, maybe a foot or two, just so that the brush would tower above it and it wouldn't be seen. The thought of it made him giggle. It was the kind of house he'd always imagined fairies to live in. Just as the thought of carries crossed his mind, he could see it perfectly. It would be about five feet cubed, shaped less like a box and more like a small hill. He could use some dead plants to create a false sodding and decorate it with more plants to make it look like nothing more than some dirt mound. And while Ben wasn't a plumber, nor wanted any sort of bathroom with in a one roomed clubhouse, he could easily make a draining system for days like today when it rained heavy. Yes, he thought, yes this would be grand! Stupendous even! The others would be so surprised and pleased, he just knew it. 

At any given moment now, Ben would be within the sweet company of Bill, Georgie, Mike, and Richie. He of course didn't know this. Stan did, however. 

Unlike Eddie, Stan was actually ill. The poor boy was so sick, he shook and trembled involuntarily. He couldn't hold anything down, not even water. He felt as if he was standing on the edge of a precipice and below him was a sea of death, riddled with jagged rocks of pain and an icy fear made wind pulling at his cloths and hair. It was cold, always cold, and he was standing on a slope of mud that was steadily giving way to his notably little weight. He was tired, but knew that if he was to rest then he'd go stumbling and falling into the murky waters below never to return to the surface as he was now, but later when he was beyond bloated and water washed a sickly coffee-filter white. By then his face would have become so liquidy, it would be impossible to tell who he was. 

The thought of such a fate wasn't exactly the sweetest. Stanley had many sweet thoughts. He liked to think about dogs and cats and how precious they were, those thoughts were sweet. He liked to think about how Bill treated Georgie and how Stan would give everything for a brother like either of them, that was a sweet thought. Hell, thinking of Bill alone was a sweet thing to do. But standing hundreds of feet above a death he was slowing growing nearer to was a rather terrifying thought and he would have no more of it. Like Ben, he chose instead to think back and remember. However unlike Ben, it wasn't the past he was remembering, it almost never was.

Stan had a gift. And it wasn't like Eddie’s gift, where you could blindfold Eddie and leave him in the woods and he'd somehow find his way home again. It wasn't Ben's gift where he could picture something seemingly impossible and make it. It wasn't Bill’s gift with being a regular leader whom all looked up to and adored. It wasn't Mike’s gift of being able to chase away even the darkest of clouds from the group’s eyes. It wasn't Beverly’s gift of strength and courage. It wasn't Richie’s gift with comedy (albeit, admittedly that really needed work). It was a much more exaggerated talent.

While Ben was remembering how terrified he'd been when sprinting, a sloppy H carved below his belly button and off to the side a little, with Henry, Belch, and Victor chasing after him, Stan was remembering every second of next week from now and on.

He was nowhere near the barrens, and tomorrow he'd be hospitalized because he still couldn't hold anything down, but he didn't need to be near them to know that Ben would receive optimistic assistance from the friends able to join him on this rainy afternoon. He knew that they'd have a club house by the time he returned. He knew that the storm clouds above weren't as simple as they seemed, and that a bigger storm was brewing along the unseen horizon line; a dark and greedy force he'd never seen before. And he knew that somehow, after great pain and anguish, they'd once again see the light that this storm was sure to block out. Stan knew, because that's just what Stan did. 

But knowing didn't make it any better. The thought was dreadful and exhausting. With a sigh, he collapsed, sinking into the mud. He blinked asleep and awake several times, watching helplessly as the murky waters grew ever closer. The only way he was able to brace himself at all was by throwing his hands out in front of him and shutting his eyes tight. He took a deep breath and waited. He felt it. His hands on the water.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got the plot all figured out, boys. Get ready for a long ride!

Henry had lost his mother at a very young age and had been left in the hands of his abusive father. Maybe if his mother had been able to stick around a while longer, maybe just maybe, Henry would have turned out better. Maybe he could have still been saved. If he still had his mother, maybe he'd wake up without as many bruises and he'd have a real reason to smile and he'd smell bacon and pancakes on the skillet and he'd live a long and happier life. But that's not how the story goes. There was no bacon or pancakes waiting for him on the skillet. There was no mother there to protect him from his father. There was only Mr. Bowers and Henry.

Mr. Bowers was a strange man. Just as there can be rational or irrational fears, more commonly known as phobias, there was rational and irrational hatred. Henry hated his father. This was a rational hatred because Mr. Bowers often beat and belittled Henry to the point of unseen tears. Mr. Bowers hated Mike Hanlon and Victor Criss. Now, these were irrational hatreds for a multitude of reasons. He hated Mike Hanlon because he was black. He hated Victor Criss because he was half japanese. These hatreds aren't called phobias, in fact they're better known just as plain old racism. Mr. Bowers was an old fashioned racist. Irrational fears- phobias. Irrational hate- ism/ist. That's how you can tell the difference. (With the exception, of course, being homophobia. Don't ask me why, I didn't invent the word.)

Mr. Bowers was full of ists. He was racist, misogynist, and many other ists that I cannot spell. And he happily trained his son to share his same warped views. Henry hated Mike too, hated him so much that he killed his dog. But Henry didn't hate Victor. He couldn't bring himself to do such a thing. He'd never admit it, not even if a barrel of a gun was pressing up against his nut sack, but he adored Victor. Henry had no mother to his name, but he did have Victor. Victor wasn't exactly a mother, but he was close enough. Henry couldn't complain, most of the time. 

Henry was the leader of his band of misfits, that much was a known fact. But it was Victor who had the real control. Everyone knew that Henry teetered on the crazy side of things. He was angry and irrational, and full of hate. He took out his pent up rage and hate out on people who were smaller than he was, just like his father did, because that was all Henry knew. While Victor hated it, he didn't stop it. Not exactly. He would allow Henry to chase and beat up one of the losers. As long as they could get up and go home afterwards, he was fine with it. Blood shed happened, it was bound to when fists went flying, but he knew that there was a limit.

For example; Henry had caught Stanley off guard one day while the child had been walking home from the library. It was cold and snow coated everything. It wasn't that soft stuff either. Essentially, the flakes were itty bitty nails. Henry jumped Stan, brought him down to the ground, and forced his face into the snow mounds. He laughed maniacally and dragged his face left and right until Stanley's face bled from several places. That, in Victor’s mind, was crossing the line. When Henry had jumped Richie that day after school and beat him up, that hadn't crossed any lines because they were only punching and occasionally kicking the kid. Nothing else had really been involved, and he could have fought back and any time if he so wished. Victor knew there was a limit, Henry did not. 

Victor also knew how to control Henry when he finally crossed the line. Victor was beyond terrified of Mr. Bowers and he rarely ever saw the man, so he could only imagine Henry’s hatred for his father. Often to warn Henry when he was crossing the line, he'd ask him what his father would do if he found out about it. That usually stopped Henry dead in his tracks. The only times that didn't work out was when they were attacking Mike Hanlon. He usually had to yell at Henry for that. So Henry learned that if he wanted to attack Mike, Victor couldn't be there. 

Belch, on the other hand, he could bring anytime! Belch also knew that there were limits but sometimes knowing wasn't enough. He knew that attacking Mike Hanlon was going beyond those limits, but he ran with it anyway. He was terrified of Henry and not as brave as Victor when it came to these matters. The most he would do was ask Henry what would Victor say and that usually did the trick. 

When paired with Henry, Victor and Belch could be nasty little shit heads that terrorized the crap out of every smaller kid nearby. But on their own, they were good natured and never lifted a hand against anyone. Victor preferred to tease kids. A lovely little “tata, boys. It was a baby of a dam any way, you'll thank us later,” was enough for him. Belch like to scare the kids. He didn't have to do anything really to do this. He was noticeably larger than most people in Derry, standing at a towering six feet. Even when the two were together, without Henry, they wouldn't hit anyone. It seemed to be only Henry who ever really wanted to hurt anyone. Henry and Patrick.

Picture this band of friends as a family, if you will. You have Victor, the mom of the bunch. Belch, the dim witted (and whipped) father. Henry, the problem child. And then there was Patrick, who could only be described as uncle touchy. Neither Victor nor Belch rather liked Patrick much. He got too handset at times and spurred on Henry’s bad behavior. Victor hated being left alone with Patrick because he always knew that Patrick was going to try something that would be crossing the line and he wouldn't be able to stop it. Belch hated being alone with Patrick because he knew that Patrick was insane and was likely to hurt him. But Henry respected Patrick. They were quite alike in mind and spirit. Henry often invited Patrick to everything just as he would with Belch and Victor. It drove his other two friends nuts! He knew it, too.

Victor and Belch would often talk about splitting off from the group but doing so would essentially be suicide. Henry and Patrick would band together and kill them both. With ease, might I just add. They were safer remaining in this troubling friendship as much as they hated it.

As for Patrick? Why, Patrick couldn't be happier. He loved it when Henry would agree to one of his stunts. It thrilled him when he suggested something and Victor dismissed it only for Henry to ignore Victor completely. It was perfect. He disliked Victor’s morals, but had to admit the fact that Victor had a pretty face. He hated Belch’s inability to think for himself, but loved the fact that he was down for anything so long as Henry said so. And he loved Henry for always agreeing to every idea that popped into his deranged little head. 

Belch and Victor agreed (in private of course because Henry would strangle them if they ever said such words in his presence and Patrick would likely jump one of them) that there was no better way to describe Patrick than Uncle Touchy. 

It was raining far too hard for the group to go around looking for kids to pick on. Patrick had decided to spend the rainy afternoon in the junkyard and left a rather flirtatious invitation for either Victor or Henry to join him any time. But Henry would not be joining him as the rain had ruined the farm and he had to try and save it as best as he could. Victor had chosen to spend the afternoon with Belch and would also not be joining him that afternoon. 

The two were camped up in Belch’s room listening to some rock while reading some comics in peace and silence. While terrorizing of children was fun and all, it was always a relief to just sit and do nothing for a change. Maybe they could talk Belch’s mom to get them a pizza or something. The thunder added to the strange surreal and lazy afternoon. If they could stop time and stay like that for ever, they'd happily do so. There was no chaos, no trouble, no blood. It was calm. 

Aloud blast of thunder shook the house. It threw Belch’s pictures from his walls and the lights died with a blinding flash. Both boys glanced nervously from each other to the lights. 

Henry had been knee deep in mud trying to save the crops with a tarp when the thunder sounded so horrendously that it made him slip once more. Patrick had been lounging on a rotting couch when the thunder struck, sending down a small collection of busted lamps, forgotten cushions, and abandoned furniture pieces to meet him. Roughly. In the face.

Ben had been struggling with the makeshift of the walls. The wood was soggy now and was expanding. It was a rather annoying issue that he was sure he'd be able to fix in no time. The thunder stuck just as he was bringing a hammer down on a nail connecting two boards. Instead of hitting the nail, he struck his thumb full on. He cried out in agony and rushed his thumb into his mouth hoping the warmth would chase away the pain. 

Georgie and Bill had been taking turns jumping into the big puddles they found along their way. Bill always made the bigger splashes, but Georgie somehow ended up with more water in his shoes. The thunder struck just as Bill had jumped. He glanced anxiously towards the sky for a moment, forgetting the fact that he was in mid air and fell heavily on his back. Georgie laughed giddily at the sight. Bill didn't laugh. He couldn't. An adult look of concern flashed about his features and he turned his attention from the sky to the neighborhood they were leaving. His heart was even with its beats but hammering violently against his ribs. The stillness of his brother worried Georgie and he stopped his laughing. 

“You ok, Bill? You get hurt?”

“I'm f-f-f-f-fine, Georgie. Cuh-come on now.”

He got back to his feet and tried to look as if his back wasn't hurt. Slowly, the smile returned to Georgie’s face and he returned to their earlier games, looking for sticks along the way. 

Mike hadn't been too affected by the thunder above. It was alarming and made him bring his hands to his ears but that was the worst of it. He wasn't surprised to find that his arm now had gooseflesh like no one had ever seen before, but he figured that was because of the rain and wind. Besides, there was no reason to be afraid of thunder, and he wasn't afraid. Instead he felt as if he were drowning, the kind of drowning you feel after finding out you'd just lost someone close to you. 

She’d been in the middle of fixing herself up a sandwich when it struck. Beverly thought for a second that the thunder would have awoken her father, and was pleasantly surprised to find that it hadn't. She sighed with relief and moved to enjoy the sad pb&j that she'd made. 

The thunder echoed like a gunshot in a tunnel in his room. It rattled the windows and Eddie was scared that they might shatter. His mother came bounding up the stairs in a fit of panicked cries as if she believed that sound could carry some disease as well. She threw open his bedroom door and ran to his side, smothering him in a hug he really didn't want. Her body was warm against his and he could feel that she was shaking. And for whatever reason unknown to him, he was crying. His mother whispered soft reassurances that he was safe with her, pelted his cheeks with kisses that he'd later wipe away, and then started crying with him.

Stanley’s father entered his room with his son’s bird book in hand. He knew very well that Stan’s birds had never failed to ease his mind before and he was certain that seeing the old thing would lift his spirits even just a little. He knocked twice before stepping inside. 

The smile he'd worn was one you'd expect all dads to wear. It was sweet and worried but reassuring all at the same time. Stan smiled weakly at his father, but it was the body’s reaction. Stan’s dad could have easily slipped into some monologue about how when he was Stan’s age, he became a chicken for a week and no one believed him, but Stan wouldn't have heard a word of it. 

He was falling. The winds were rushing past his ears so fast it blocked out all the noise. He couldn't see his father because he'd shut his eyes tight. He wasn't there. His body was but he wasn’t. 

He fainted the very second his hands met the ink waters. In that same second, thunder struck without a lightning bolt to summon it. The amplified sound of his body forcing itself past the water’s surface. The water’s dark color swallowed him whole and he was unable to tell which way was up. He was drowning, god help him he was drowning! But his father couldn't have known. 

He stood in the doorway speaking in a soft and controlled voice when Stan had broken through the water’s barrier. He watched the last of the color drain from his boy’s face and he sunk into his pillows with a faint sigh and gently shut his eyes. His father grinned at the sight. Poor fellow must be exhausted. He slowly approached and set the book down upon Stanley's night stand. He turned to see himself out when something stopped him. 

Unless you are a parent then there is no real way for you to truly understand what it was that made Mr. Uris stop. Any other person would have kept walking and never even noticed that Stan was in such terrible distress. That's because no one knew a child better than their parents. 

Mr. Uris took one look at his son and noticed something was off instantly. Maybe it was the way his brows were furred or how his breathing was in desperate gasps and wheezes. Something was wrong with his boy, something was terribly wrong. He nudged Stan gently, hoping to stir him from his restless slumber, but Stan gave no response. 

Terror overwhelmed Mr. Uris. He promptly called for his wife. He knew next to nothing about illnesses, whereas she had always been the one who'd cared for their child when he was sick, she'd know, she'd have to know! She rushed to see what on earth her husband was going on about now. She didn't have to step into Stan’s room to pick up on the sudden drop in temperature or the odd smell. Derry really wasn’t too far from the sea, she supposed, but it smelled like it was right there, in his bedroom. She ran inside and was instantly besides her husband. But not even she knew what ailed their son. They decided to let him sleep, hoping that he would be soothed after what ever fit this was passed him. If he showed no signs of improvement by the following morning then they'd be rushing him into the nearest hospital. 

It was raining far heavier now, much more than it had been. Derry was sure to undergo some expensive flooding. The poor pipes might not be able to handle it all. 

Mr. Bowers had called Henry inside, fully aware that the rain wasn't going to let up and that Henry was doomed if he'd tried to fight it (However completely unaware that Mr. Hanlon was about to financially destroy him). 

Victor and Belch watched amazed as the window well became more like an overflowing bucket than anything else. Little streams snuck past the creaks an cracks and fell in a messy heap onto the floor. Both boys exchanged a quick glance then rushed to find a way to stop it from making too big of a mess. 

Patrick hardly had any time to save himself from the clutter that had bombarded him when he was suddenly belted by the heavy down pour. It bruised his cheeks and stung his hands. He then immediately regret clearing himself of the uncomfortable protection. 

Ben never heard Georgie or Bill approach him. The rain hitting his hood drowned out Georgie’s horrendously repetitive song. This had been a blessing in disgust that he never knew he got. Ben let out a sharp yelp when he looked up and spotted the two of them standing there all creepy like. A pudgy hand ran to his breast wanting to break through it and clutch his rapidly spazzing heart. His chest heaved and he tried to catch his breath. A smile quickly graced his lips and he laughed lightly.

“What nerve have you got to be going around sneaking up on people like that? Don't you know you can give a man a heart attack that way? ‘Bout nearly died is what I did!” 

Bill smiled, but it wasn't his usual smile; it was weak and laced with worry. The sight of it made Georgie feel itchy and lost a little. 

“Sorry, Haystack.” And that was that. There was no need for an explanation or further apologies. “Whatcha working on?” He spoke slow, taking time between each word to say it several times in his head before saying it out loud. He didn't have the patience for his own stutter today. Not at all. He was perfectly fine dragging out the words as if he were speaking a song instead of actually singing it. And Ben didn't seem to mind this change one bit. 

Ben lifted up the boards he'd been messing with. It briefly passed Bill’s mind that a child Ben’s age didn't normally have such professional skills as those that had been displayed before him time and time again. He admired Ben for this reason. Worried that he'd somehow ruin the small beginnings of a wall if he touched it, he kept his hands away and chose instead to give a firm nod of approval. That was just fine and dandy for Ben. He turned on his heel, his mind already back at work, and fished another nail from its brothers.

“Want any help?” Georgie piped up unthinkingly. He was good at that, not thinking.

Ben hesitated a second. Bill could handle things like this. He was strong, despite how god damn skinny he was, and he had the patience to get the job done right the first time. Ben had learned the hard way that small children weren't as good at that as he'd hoped. That aside, if Georgie hurt himself, then Bill would get mad. Bill was scary when he was mad. He looked to the older of the brothers now for either a confirmation to Georgie’s request or a denial. Bill could only shrug. That wasn't exactly the clearest answer. Ben wanted a simple nod or a shake of the head and Bill’s gotta be that one guy who shrugs, go figure. Ben was left to think on it for a moment longer before hesitantly handing Georgie the small box of nails.

“Sure, I guess. Can you hold these for me? Don't drop em now.” Georgie grinned ear to ear and greedily snatched up the box. For the seventh time that day, Bill briefly wondered about the sanity of his little brother. He passed it off as just childish excitement and moved to assist Ben by holding the boards snugly besides each other. 

Georgie watched Ben hammer away for a while but quickly grew bored with the show. He'd once had more fun counting all of the hairs on his arm. He'd counted to 2,753, and had to stop because he sneezed and lost where he was and didn't want to start over. That said, this was remarkably much more dull than counting every last strand of arm hair. 

His eyes began to wander around his environment and he searched desperately for whatever might possibly attract children to come and play. He saw nothing! Disappointment clouded his mind. Maybe his brother was crazy after all. Just as the thought ran through his tiny little head, his eyes caught the brief dance of a silhouette in the rain. It was too dark and the rain too heavy to accurately see just what exactly the thing was, and it had vanished before he had the chance to even try and make it out. Curious, he mumbled. Then Ben reached for a nail and he'd forgotten all about the figure. 

I must take this time to stop and ask you, dear reader, to reflect upon your own life and experiences. Have you ever known that something terrible was going to happen days before it did? Before you answer that, I must also set some limitations. This terrible thing had no warning, no sign, no way of stopping it. There was no foreshadowing or reason for your knowing so. You didn't know what it was, you simply knew it was going to happen. Has that ever happened to you before? 

Well, it happened to Mike as he was practically swimming down the street now. The flood water was halfway up his shin and as he steadily reached the end of the hill it only rose higher. Walking wasn't this easy thing that it used to be, now it was this exhausting struggle he really didn't have the energy to deal with. 

But his mind wasn't on how deep the water was or how hard it was becoming to trudge through it. It wasn't anywhere near the fact that with every step he grew closer and closer to losing his shoes. It was far from those simple, silly thoughts. He was focused, quite intently, on the suffocating feeling that something terrible, just out right awful, was doomed to happen. The thoughts weighed him down ten thousand times more than the thick mud that was clinging to the soles of his shoes. A rock had been dropped in the back of his head and it sank rapidly to settle and crush his heart. 

Normally when Mike spotted the barrens, a welcomed feeling of relief would hug him and he'd be figuratively, though sometimes literally, leaping with joy, whooping and shouting wildly as he did so. 

Though that hadn't been the case, oddly enough, when he'd reached their edge this time. How he'd managed to spot the three figures- two his friends one too little to be anyone other than Georgie- past the rain was unknown to him. But he'd managed nonetheless! His fists were jammed deep and safe inside his pockets and his head kept low. He glanced anxiously around, though what he'd been looking for still remains a mystery, and hastily rushed towards them. Out of the corner of his eye, a strange figure passed him by. A devastating chill licked its way up his spine and made his hair stand on end. He shuddered viciously in a wild attempt to shake it off but it clung to him still. 

He was cold, he decided, just cold. That was all this was. And with that in his mind, he smiled wide and large and greeted Georgie by letting loose a low pitched whistle which Georgie responded with its opposite. The small child turned his head and beamed when he spotted Mike. He nearly dropped the nails. Ben’s work could be forgotten about for a second though, Georgie thought briefly before taking off to catch Mike in the tightest bear hug he possible could.

“Mister Mike!”

“Junior Georgie, how ya doin’ kiddo?”

“Bill fell down in a puddle and it was really funny.”

Mike glanced up and eyed Bill carefully, looking for any signs of pain in his face. If he was hurt, he didn't show it. Ben was speaking fast and certain and Bill refused to miss a beat of it. There was no hurt upon his face, only a strange determination that the leader wore far too well. Mike nodded.

“Yeah I can see that. Did you fall?”

“Only once, but it wasn't outside.” He motioned for Mike to kneel down so that he could tell him a secret and Mike readily gave in to the silent request. “The toilet water was much warmer than the rainwater.”

Mike chuckled at that little bit of information. Kids say the craziest of things. He opened his mouth to share his own little secret but never got the chance to.

“Well, well, well, either I'm hallucinating or I've just found four rapscallions-” Mike didn't waste a beat. He knew Richie Tozier’s voice no matter how he tried to warp it. He quickly threw his hands over Georgie’s ears and frowned deeply- “fucking around in the rain! A-wot, a-wot!” He pretended to tip a hat he wasn't wearing. In his downward motion, his glasses slid from his face and plummeted to the grass.

“Ah shit. Where did those go? Mike, help a fella out won't you?” 

Mike wanted to remain exactly where he was, just in case Richie started with his shit again. Georgie didn't need that kind of language in his life, he just didn't! What good would it do the world letting a small child go around with a mouth anything like Richie’s? If Georgie so much as said damn, he'd be sure to see to it that Richie ate nothing but soap for the next week!

But if Mike wouldn't help, then Georgie would. Georgie adored Richie. Most kids adore the big kids who get to sat all the bad words. But Georgie didn't just like Richie, no, worship was perhaps a better word to be used there. Yes, Georgie worshiped Richie Tozier, much to Mike’s displeasure. Georgie darted forward and fell to his hands and knees feeling around for the lost glasses. 

“One of these days I'm going to get contacts and never have to worry about this shit again!”

“Beep beep, Richie!” 

Georgie giggled at how Mike had practically hissed this like an angry cat. 

“I found ‘em!” 

Georgie rushed to hand Richie his glasses. The older boy took them frantically, his hands moving about as if they had just developed minds of their own and didn't exactly know what the hell they were supposed to do. Eventually, after a rather amusing fit of fingers, he'd found them and put them back on his face. He frowned and removed them once more.

“It's so cold out, my own body heat radiating off my own damn face fogs ‘em up!”

“Richie!”

“Mike!”

“Language!”

Richie was greatly confused now. He ran his last sentence back through his head and tried to find where Mike had a problem but was unable to find anything. He shook his head with a shrug.

“...I'm speaking English this time, what-”

“Watch your language!”

“It's noise, Mike! How the fuck do you watch a noise?”

That's it, thought Mike, hand soap for breakfast, maybe some dish soap for lunch, and that bar of soap for dinner. Maybe for dessert, maybe if he was lucky, Richie could have a lovely cup of laundry detergent! Georgie stared up at Richie in pure admiration. He turned to Mike, inspired and enthralled.

“Yeah, Mike, how the fuck do you watch a noise?”

Poor Mike. Had he'd been as old as his father, he could easily believe that he'd be dead of a heart attack right about now. But he wasn't as old as his father and wasn't about to drop dead from a heart attack. Instead, his jaw dropped open and his eyes shot wide.

Richie immediately recognized the problem and laughed lightly. He gently put a hand on Georgie’s shoulder and knelt so that the two’s eyes met. If this actually happened, Richie wasn't sure because Georgie didn't exactly have a face, he was only a strange flesh colored blur. But he tried nonetheless.

“Georgie, you can't say that word around Mike, ok? That's bad. That's bad kitties. Go lay down.”

He'd heard those last two sentences from his mother during that time a stray cat (of which they hadn't seen in over a month) had befriended the family. She was half blind and a little rowdy and loved attention. If Richie was a cat, that would be it. His mom would often tell that cat that she was “bad kitties” and to “go lay down” though the cat never once listened to her, thus furthering the point that this was essentially Richie as a cat. And while Georgie wasn't a cat, he both figured and hoped, he found that this little gripe was perfect for this situation. As far as he was concerned, his job here was done, he'd solved the problem!

Mike, on the other hand, was not pleased. Not even in the slightest. The world did not need another Richie Tozier and he was certain Bill wouldn't appreciate his baby brother picking up Richie’s bad habits. 

Little did Mike know that only a few hours ago Bill and Georgie had been telling each other just how much of an asshole they were. Georgie got off a good one when he mentioned the fact that not only was Bill the biggest asshole, he was also the crustiest. This almost made Bill gag. There was already no hope for Georgie. No hope at all.

“Georgie, can I get another nail, please?”

And the cursing was forgotten. Mike and Richie now turned their full attention on Ben and Bill. Instinctively, for lack of a better word, they moved to help out as well.

They'd have a vast majority of this new club house built before it stopped raining and the rest finished before it became tomorrow. They'd spend a little extra time trying to hide it to make it blend in with its surroundings as much as possible then they'd all head on over to Ben’s house and enjoy some hot chocolate by the furnace as Ben lacked a fire place. 

Stan, on the completely other hand, wouldn't be anywhere near something warm and comforting. 

The water’s current twisted and pulled him in every which way. He wasn't sure how much longer he'd be able to hold his breath and he was terrified that the vicious grabbing of the water would soon rip him apart the way a newspaper deteriorates in water. But it didn't. It chose instead to throw him into a small, dirty, and cold underwater cave. 

A small voice whispered out into the darkness, quiet and sad, calling to Stan who was too dazed to really make any of it out. Still it sang sweet and gentle. A mother’s sad lullaby to her sick child. A faint blue glow emanated from the back of the cave, but it's source could not be seen. And it would be a while longer before Stan noticed it. 

Stan spat out lungfuls of water and struggled to try and replace it all with the much wanted air. As the pain in his chest began to subside, he was attacked by an excruciating agony just behind his eyes.

His ears began to ring, an annoying tone that was far too high pitched for any human being to handle. He tried to scream but found himself completely unable to.

Slowly, in small increments, the song playing in the deepest recesses of his head began to come into focus and he found himself perfectly able to understand all of it. It was a soft hum, neither a man's nor a woman’s voice yet distinctly both. It called out in pure gentleness, easing away the fears and angers that dared bubble to the mind. It inspired relaxation and understanding. Stan was haunted by it, transfixed, possessed. None of these words can accurately depict how it affected him. 

He climbed to his feet and was startled to find how they didn't shake like he'd expected them to. He was filled with a strange strength the beaconed him closer to the voice. He moved closer to the faint blue glow and before him flashed everything.

He saw how he'd be in the hospital for the rest of his short lived life. He saw Bill and how frantic he was growing as time would pass. He saw the skies remaining a permanent grey. He saw the group almost void of laughter. He saw headlights, bright and big. He saw the blood flowing in the street and heard the shouts of panic and pain. He felt terror surge through him and indescribable pain erupt in various places as if invisible fists were beating at him with impossible forces. He saw missing posters. He saw a man they all once feared become a beacon of hope and safety. He saw it all and yet he saw none of it. It passed him by in a blur and he knew not who would wind up where or when it he knew it was going to happen. Just as he knew only Mike and Bill could really tell that something was happening. Though why these two in particular he didn't know, and may not ever know. 

His feet drew him ever closer to the top of the hill and finally he could peer down to see what had been the source of the blue glow. He was confronted with a lazy river as wide as the Grand Canyon and as long as a small lake swirl endlessly. But there was no water to fill it. Instead there were what he could only describe as phantoms moving about, each giving off their own glow, some glowed as bright as the sun, others were hardly bright enough to cast a shadow. He knew what they were. His chest began to give off a similar blue hue. Then he spotted the cause of the singing and the glow nearly stopped. The only other person who'd seen this strange figure had been Georgie. The only others to hear it's song was Bill and Mike. But none of the others would meet it in person. Only Stan. And Stan knew that it was meant to be this way. 

Without fear he continued his slow approach. His head involuntarily memorised the song, its words, its tune, how the figure managed to make its voice into three instead of just the one. He took notice of how as the song continued on, more and more of the phantoms glowed ever brighter. His mind began to chant one word over and over again. Home.

He was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While pairing is here, it's it exactly stressed. It's more like shipable moments (if you can even call it that) as I wanted to focus more on the group dynamics more than on smaller relationships. Sorry if this is disappointing. Please forgive me.
> 
> Thinking after this, Sunday is going to be chapter update day. 
> 
> You can find me at westwoodwinters on tumblr, as this won't be the only fix I'll be writing. (Hopefully I can whip up some shorter things XD) and I take requests/prompts  
> Thanks and I love ya!


	3. Three

Eddie wasted no time equipping himself with his medicine stuffed fanny pack just to ease his mother’s worried mind. He was well aware that the only thing he'd be using out of it was his inhaler, but if he left the house without everything his mother would throw a fit and he'd never again get to leave the house again. She was already throwing her tantrum so he needed to get the hell out before she caged him. He hardly had his shoes op his feet when he was stumbling out the door and gunning for his bike. 

His room had grown stuffy and the second his lungs were greeted with the warmer summer’s breeze he felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his tiny, tiny shoulders and his feet lifted off the ground. He was flying! He was soaring. He almost didn't need his bike. But he took it anyway simply because he knew it was faster than this new flying. 

The wind was wild that day. He couldn't think of a better day to fly some trash can found kite. It pulled his hair from his scalp and pulled his shirt snug against his chest. It made it difficult to breathe at time but it was still much easier than when he'd been trapped inside his room. He couldn't imagine going back again. Not in a million years but he knew he would. He had to. 

Bill was waiting expectantly at the barrens. He was careful not to wander too close to their newly constructed club house. You never knew when Henry was around and watching. So he stayed put in the middle of the barrens with silver at his side just in case. Georgie was not too far off listing off a random collection of words while dangling upside down from a low hanging branch. It was the only one he could reach. 

“Pumpernickel, Skittles, Cactus, Booger, Sheep, Foot, Hiccup, Lumpy…” 

Bill watched carefully for any sign of movement besides his baby brother’s rather reckless swinging. The wind was happy to run its fingers through the towering ferns and twisting up the leaves that dangled off the trees. It took the petals from the flowers. But there was nothing else. Not yet. 

Mike had went to Richie’s house first. He'd spent half of the week's allowance on soap and intended to give all of it to Richie. He's told the boy that he had snacks and Richie could never say no to snacks! He fell for it as if it was the oldest trick in the book! He wasn't sure which book, but yes!

He waited patiently on the porch for Richie to emerge from his house. Inside he could hear a woman shouting at Richie and he was fairly certain it was the child’s mother and honestly he really couldn't be surprised. If Richie was his son, he'd yell at him too. 

Richie had made his mother quite unhappy, as he did so often and so easily. Yesterday, he'd taken off on his bike during a terrible storm. She figured she wouldn't have to teach him a lesson for this, however, once she saw the bruise roughly the size of a great whale and a nasty scrape across the back of his shoulder. This morning, about five minutes before Mike dropped off a quick call, Richie had stepped quickly into his new Australian character, a man he named Aidan who had a bad habit of narrating his every action, and had driven his mother up the wall so high she couldn't come down.

He'd dropped the accent when Mike had called and was so thrilled about the mention of snacks that it hadn't returned until he fell down the stairs for approximately the third time that hour. 

“You know if your room stayed in your room and not on the stairs, you'd have less to trip over,” his mother grumbled after hearing the rapid succession of thuds her son made.

“His mother bitched,” he'd mumbled under his breath as his father had been walking past. His mom never would have known he'd said such a thing but his father’s poker face was not the best. He'd tried to stifle a laugh and depress the smile that threatened and failed so bad that his mom grew suspicious instantly.

“What did he say?” She set her fists against her hips and tapped her foot expectantly. “What did that little trashmouth say?” His father broke then and let the laughter poor. It was then very clear just how tired the poor man was as he often never found Richie’s remarks and comments funny. 

Now she was chasing Richie around the house threatening to tickle him to death until he told her what he'd said. And Richie knew that telling his mother would deliver him into an equally as early grave, only he wouldn't die laughing. The smoke alarm promptly went off and the chase came to an abrupt stop. His father was howling now.

“Well looks here, I'd say that's the seventeenth pie you've killed this week and it's only Tuesday!”

“Oh, quiet you, or I’ll make you eat it! Richie, you're friend is here.”

Richie, out of breath and beat red, spared a quick glance towards the wide open windows. Mike had been walking down the street and would probably be at the door in forty seconds or more. He ran to hunt down his shoes. 

His mother pulled the pie from the oven and set it down upon the stove. She looked at it hopefully. The crust hadn't caved in, it wasn't black, it was crispy but not entirely solid. The apple fillings bubbled with a sweet aroma. Her heart lifted. She hadn't killed this one! She checked the insides of the oven to see what had triggered the smoke alarm, which I must tell you wasn't one of those fancy screaming things you have in your house today. No. If they had that smoke alarm, they'd never get any sleep and they'd probably be well acquainted with the fire department’s crew. So they had instead a foil tray of uncooked popcorn. When things got too hot, they'd pop. They'd placed it on the wall right next to the oven so that it would work better. It was now full of freshly popped popcorn. And what had set it off was a small mess of pie filling she'd spilled when trying to put the pie in the oven in the first place had caught fire. It was out before she could turn the oven off. Nothing could ruin her day!

“So what did he say?”

“He called you a bitch-”

She was wrong.”

“Richard Tozier!”

And Richie knew it was time to go. He laced up his shoes as fast as his little hands would let him, consequently getting his finger stuck. His mother stormed at him. A smile cracked his face and he lunged at the door.

“See ya, ma, love ya!”

The entire time she was shouting at him and once more his father was laughing. The poor man was in dire need of some coffee. 

Richie was out the door before his mother was in the parlor. He met Mike with a triumphant and guilt riddled smile and quickly lead him over to his bike.

“We gotta go before she catches me,” he informed him in one quick breath. Mike didn't need to hear anymore than that. He hopped on behind Richie and the two took off speeding down the hill and towards the barrens they were headed. 

Beverly had been walking down the street with a slight slip in her every step and a whistle oh my god time at her lips when she watched both boys fly past her at a dizzying speed. Mike had been the only one of the two to spot her and he waved frantically. She happily returned the gesture and giggled a bit. She stopped walking and ran after them. She nearly collided head on with Eddie, who’s bikes breaks didn't want to work for a second there. He came to a full stop regardless and neither of the two were harmed in the slightest bit. 

“Wanna ride?”

“Only if I peddle.”

“You got a deal.”

Eddie moved to let Beverley take over. He was tired anyway. The two started off slowly, the bike wobbling dangerously as the two fought to find a balance together. As soon as they found it though, they were soaring. Both leaned forward to increase the speed of the bike and surpassed Richie and Mike almost instantaneously. If it was a race they wanted, then it was a race they'd get!

In the distance, A car all could easily recognize drive past, but not once child saw it. Stan’s father sat besides his son in the back seat holding a bucket just in case the ride got too nauseating. Stanley had been entirely unable to move much and was puking like crazy. His mother was driving as smoothly as possible so as not to jostle her poor baby boy too much. The hospital wasn't too far, but its roads weren't exactly the best. She silently counted and personally damned each and every pot hole she had to avoid. 

There was no music, no radio station was on. The car was as silent as the undug grave aside from Stanley’s struggling wheezes and the soft hum of the engine. 

“Apple, Door, Fly, State, Truck, Kiwi, Hut, Stack, Jump…” Georgie went on. How he knew so many random ass words was beyond Bill, who'd stopped listening about ten minutes ago. He'd been watching the wind push everything around playfully when he'd spotted (at last, at long last) Beverly’s wild red hair and Eddie’s bike.

“Squat, Toothbrush, Giraffe, Loop, Rock, Toad, Nail…”

Bill waved frantically, hoping that she would be able to spot him. Georgie swung one more time and lost his grip, sending him falling from the tree the way a coconut fell in those cartoons. He even landed with a cartoonish bonk! His little stumble didn't appear to have phased him too badly as he went on…

“Oh, I guess Snort, Glove, Crayon, and Lift are all out of the question too. There's more but I just can't think of them all right now.”

Bill turned to his brother with a wise and old grin and ruffled his hair. “Georgie,” he began, “if wuh-we ever g-g-g-get a dog, you cah-an name it whatever you want.”

Georgie took Bill’s words into consideration. A dark cloud formed over his face. Bill was smart, yes, smart and clever and he knew everything just like their mom and dad. He could never bring himself to question a thing his brother said because of this. However, right now he felt that Bill’s comment was a big lipped alligator statement. A term which here means; two things that had no relation to each other at all. Georgie had been listing off bad passwords for the club and Bill was talking about dogs. Maybe Bill was just too wise for young mister Georgie to fully understand. Or maybe that was the password. If that were the case, then it was a terrible password. Who was he to question Bill? After all, Bill knew everything. Georgie knew this because Bill said so. 

Beverly struggled to bring Eddie’s bike to a stop. The two hopped off giddily. Both wore matching triumphant smiles that painted their cheeks a sweet shade of pink. They cheered seconds before throwing themselves into an unnecessarily complicated handshake Mike had taught them at the beginning of the summer. 

Richie and Mike quickly joined them a second later. Richie was out of breath and panting more than he should. He'd put his all into that race but apparently his all just wasn't enough. Was he ok with that? No. Not at all. But he'd let it slide because he'd lost fair and square. He’d even had a head start. This just meant that he had something to try and improve on over the summer, now didn't it? 

He congratulated Beverley and, in an uncharacteristic act of good sportsmanship, shook her hand. Beverley held her head high. Bill chuckled silently at the display.

Georgie, upon recognizing Richie’s voice, bolted upright and ran into view. The child had stars dazzling his awe struck eyes. Mike suddenly looked weary of the child’s presence and much more aware of the fact that he had twelve dollars worth of soap on him at that very moment. (To clarify, each bar of soap cost him fifteen cents. He had 80 bars of soap in his backpack. Just in case you were curious.)

Richie grinned at Georgie, “My word, it's a wild garden gnome!” He did his best to slip into his British weather girl, Lucille, who was always amazed by everything and terrified of everything. It may come as no surprise to you when I say that his act needed work. A lot of work. But Georgie loved it all the same. Richie was thrilled to have a fan. Finally, he'd tell Eddie later, someone with good taste! But for now he planned on entertaining his biggest fan as much as possible, much to Bill’s delight.

“I've ‘eard they want to eat our toes!”

“Eat your nose?” Beverly picked up on the act and was more than happy to get involved. Eddie, Bill, and Mike passed around nervous glanced. Mike’s hand flew instantly to his backpack just in case.

“No, you half wit! Our toes!”

“Now why would anyone want to steal your toast?”

The two went on like this for a while. Georgie’s laughter rang out like Christmas bells in every Christmas song ever. It was light and wonderful, a sweet contrast to the gloom that still crawled up and down Bill’s mind and nipped at Mike’s heart. 

“Any of you heard from Stan the man or Haystack yet?” Eddie asked quietly so as not to disrupt the chaos that was Richie and Beverly both doing terrible British accents. 

Bill shook his head. His eyes dropped to the floor and he looked to be in deep thought. He didn't want to speak much today. He felt that he was needlessly worried about something and the anxiety it was producing was going to make his stuttering worse. So he'd do his best to speak only when absolutely necessary. But he had to admit, he was deep in thought. 

His thoughts weren't on his stutter or his rising anxiety levels. His mind was trying to conjure up any reason why Stan the man wasn't there with them. He was always punctual. He hated being late or early. He should have been here yesterday, despite the rain. Yes, he'd be here, standing at a safe distance away from any tree with his hands stuffed into his pockets and a cute pout on his face that Bill would tease him about. But he hadn't been. And he wasn't here now. 

“Ben said that he'd be a bit late. He had to run a couple errands with his mom. He’ll be here before,” Mike quickly informed. 

“Bloody hell, Mira, listen to me! Ya fookin’ twat!”

“Beep beep, Richie!” 

Strike one, Mike mumbled. He let his backpack slip from off his shoulders and set it down besides his feet. For every beep beep, Richie would get one bar of soap. He removed one of the 80 he had and chucked it at him. The pink thing bounced off the back of his head, startling him. He looked down and frowned.

“Who the fuck just threw a bar of woman’s hand soap at me?”

“Beep beep!” Mike repeated and chucked a second.

Mike had read somewhere that you can train people like you can train dogs. No, not train, but condition. Pavlov’s dogs. Man rings a bell before giving dogs dinner, dogs drool. Soon the dogs associate the ringing of the bell with food and start to drool with just the sound alone. Richie wasn't a dog, but he could still learn! Eventually he'd learn that cursing resulted in getting a bar of soap chucked at you. And cursing in front of Georgie meant you had to bite the soap for a minute for every curse word spoken. Richie had two minutes to his name, he just didn't know it yet.

Richie picked up the two soap bars and sniffed em. Has an old lady ever walked past you practically soaking in perfume and the smell kinda followed her like a clingy puppy might? That's the only why to describe the smell of the soap and it nearly made Richie gag. 

Georgie was completely unaware of what was unfolding but just assumed that this was part of the skit Richie and Bev had been a part of only seconds ago. He was so happy, he couldn't breathe and tears were rolling down his cheeks.

Richie threw a soap back at Mike with a shake of his head. He had to have had the weirdest friends in the whole world. He had to. He wouldn't give them up for the world though, no matter how many bars of soap they chucked at his head. 

Beverly moved to escort Georgie out of the line of fire. She took him tenderly by the hand and whispered in a low and comforting tone.

“Why don't you show me around that clubhouse Ben mentioned, hmm? Does that sound like a good idea?” She hooked a finger and tickled him lightly on the nape of his neck. He giggles and gleefully lead her away from the rapidly flying soap. 

Bill spotted Ben across the barrens as decided to go and fetch him. He was tired of the soap fight and didn't want to get hit but didn't want to spoil their fun either. 

Ben was in a brilliant mood. The clubhouse was done, he'd just gotten some new pants, and to top it all off, his mom had found that his favorite flavor of ice-cream had been on sale and bought it in bulk. That and now he got to spend the rest of his day with friends. What more could a child want?

Finding himself practically alone, there was no one around to notice when Eddie seemed to slip away into some sort of trance. His eyes grew dull and he watched, unblinking, towards Neibolt street. What had caught his attention he could be sure of. All he knew was that if felt as if it were calling to one of them. And he just didn't like the sound of it.

There are many wonders in a world like this. What creatures hide in the darkest depths of our great ocean? What really killed the dinosaurs? What created space? I stand in no position to preach to you whether or not there is a God or which God it is, or how many, as that belief is purely yours and shouldn't be argued against because your faith, or lack thereof, isn't hurting anybody. But I can tell you that here there lies a power beyond what the human mind can fully understand. There is a start to all things. Perhaps the turtle they'd found that June had something to do with it, perhaps not. 

The house on Neibolt street was a strange one. No one could quite figure out what was wrong with it. Many men, women, and children were actually afraid of it. Eddie walked past it almost every day and while he couldn't tell how exactly, he knew that there was something about that house that was unnatural. And he was right.

The house on Neibolt street was almost as old as Derry itself. It used to be the well house. The house itself was one this large and glorious buildings in which a man named Robbert Grey had lived in comfort and in luxury. Strange things did happen in that house and stranger still. No one knew where Robbert went. No one knew how it fell into such disrepair. All it was now was a sad and hollow shell of what once was a beautiful thing. Reduced down to nothing more than peeling painted walls, collapsing ceilings, broken and boarded windows, and no green grasses to be seen. If ever there was a house to be haunted, that would be it. 

As ugly as it was, it wasn't it's decomposing appearance that disturbed Eddie. There was something sinister about that house. There was something that it was hiding and every now and again, it would show him a small glimpse as if to try and lure him in. He'd seen a strange shadow walk past a dust ruined window once. He cast it off as a trick of the eye and thought nothing more of it. That was until he started hearing a strangely welcoming and soothing song resonating from within those thin walls. Indeed there was something in that house. He had no way to tell if it was a good thing or an evil thing and he hadn't the intention to go and find out.

But now it bothered him. He could almost hear its voice, oddly enough neither a man’s nor a woman’s voice, chanting out the word hospital to a sad little beat. 

Billy walked Ben back over to where the soap war was starting to die down. Richie had learned to quit throwing the soaps back and was now hoarding as many as he could. He thought that he'd leave Mike with none soon. After all, he had 13 piled up in his arms. How many bars of soap could Mike possibly have? 67. Mike had 67 left but what Richie didn't know wouldn't kill him. Mike eventually stopped throwing soap, scared to depart with too much ammo in just one day. 

Ben looked back and forth between the two, having missed most of the war. He shook his head and buried his judgments in the back of his head to be forgotten. 

Bill however didn't seem as pleased as Ben was. Both Mike and Richie dropped their heads in shame. Bill looked from face to face of all he could see. Richie looked as if he was going to chuck another bar of soap when Mike turned his back. Mike looked like he actually regret starting this whole thing. Ben looked confused but entertained. And Eddie, why, Eddie looked older. Worry lines appeared at the corners of his eyes and his lips were pulled into a thin, flat line. 

“Hospital,” he said. 

On a beat the three others turned to look towards Bill for both guidance and confirmation. The word hung heavy above their heads, casting about a shadow of gloom. They didn't know why they all agreed with Eddie or what it was they were agreeing to, they just did. And Bill did to. He gave a sharp nod and sighed softly.

“We can go after luh-hunch.”

Eddie seemed displeased with this answer but wouldn't argue. Bill was smart. Bill knew what to do, he always did. Maybe things just felt off because they lacked Stan the man to give them more insight on the situation. Until he returned, they'd all just have to put their full trust in Bill and hope he knew what he was doing.

Stanley sat besides the figure. Neither spoke. The figure sang its song, and the two just watched the things that glowed. For a while, they did nothing but whisper out in detached voices and floated about. Now there was a blinding light not too far from them. A woman, roughly as old as Stan’s grandmother, heaved herself out of the swirling others. The figure stopped singing and moved to help her up and out. The very second the singing stopped the dull lights flickered red. 

The figure gently lead the woman by the hand to the back of the cave where Stan had first fell in from. 

One of the newly turned red things began to hiss and scream. It glowed brightly, as bright as the woman. It shot flairs from its body and grew restless, tearing its way through the lazy river in a spastic motion. It then burst free from the river and pulled itself out. It got to its shaky legs and Stan could see that this was no “it” at all but a little girl. Betty Ribbson if he recalled correctly. The poor thing went missing a couple weeks ago. She was angry, or maybe she was just scared. She seethed a brilliant red that made her look like fire. She let out a deafening scream and lunged at Stan. 

He hardly had any time to think, in fact, he didn't think at all. He shut his eyes tight and began to sing. 

Just before she could rip the skin from his face, she stopped. The glow began to fade and once again she was calm. Stan got to his shaking feet and offered Betty his hand. She stared at it for a second before hesitantly taking it. Stanley slowly turned her back towards the river and helped her climb back inside, singing all the while. Her red glow steadily vanished and the dull blue hue returned.

He sighed intently and turned around to go back to where he'd been seated previously and was startled to find the figure standing not too far off with its four arms crossed across its thin and unbreathing chest. He couldn't see its face (he didn't even know if it had a face) but he knew that in its own way, it was smiling at him. The kind of smile a proud father would give his son after the boy made his first home run. A smile said “I knew you had it in you.”

Stan felt a twitch of pride when the figure let him continue singing. He watched the dull light's swell ever brighter and felt more relaxed than ever before. This was home, he thought again. Though he didn't understand why. 

Henry awoke that morning to find his alcoholic father passed out on their ratty little couch. A half empty beer bottle lay on the floor several feet away from him. A group of empty bottle stood at attention near his father’s yellowing feet. The sight disgusted Henry. He swiped the half empty bottle from its home on the floor and drank the rest. Once it was gone, he set it down with the others and grinned. It reminded him of bowling. And suddenly he had a great idea. 

He ran to the phone and quickly rang Victor. Normally he had to ask to use the phone but he figured his father really wouldn't mind right now seeing as he wasn't even awake. He waited impatiently for the operator to connect them.

“This is the Criss family, who's calling?” A lovely woman asked far too politely. Henry thought about how sometimes when they got in bad with adults Victor would use the same voice. It brought a smile to his face.

“Hey, Mrs. Criss, Victor there?”

Mrs. Criss wasn't the best woman, and a terrible mother. She let anyone one with a quarter into her sheets and often chose her boyfriends (which she'd exchange for a new one about every other week) over Victor. But it wasn't her hyper sexual activities that made her a bad woman. sje was a bad woman because she'd pit her boyfriend and Victor against each other for pure entertainment. She was a bad woman because she'd told Victor that their dog ran away after she'd gotten it killed in a dog fight. She was a bad woman because she couldn't be bothered to care for anything other than herself. 

She sighed heavily. She'd really been hoping that maybe one of her boyfriend's was calling or he'll her husband! She hated it when Henry called. 

“He’s over at Belch’s place, darling,” she informed bitterly. 

Henry frowned. Belch’s? What was he doing over there? No matter, he could ask them later. “Thank you ma’am, sorry to disturb you.” He hung up before she could respond. 

He used to joke with Victor that His dad and Vie’s mom would be a perfect couple. She did nothing but lay on her back with her legs spread wider than the earth is round and he did nothing but take what wanted when he wanted it. Victor then prayed for three hours to a god he wasn't sure was listening to send his father back home safe and sound. 

Belch answered his own phone, thank god. The poor boy hadn't slept much the night prior. He and Victor had stayed up all night making fun of the price is right. They'd hadn't fallen asleep until around three in the morning. He was groggy and missing his pants. He spared a glance back at Victor, who had fallen asleep on his bed and grinned. Then, with a huff, he stumbled dumbly down the hall to get the phone just to shut it up.

“Belch speaking. Henry. Shit, do you know what time it is? Shit, really? Yeah he's here. He's asleep, I ain't gonna wake him. Cause he's asleep! Alright, alright, I'm sorry. Where you want us to meet? Is Patrick coming along? Right. Yeah. Right, see you there.” 

He hung up the receiver and put a forefinger and thumb to the bridge if his nose. He suddenly felt a headache coming on. It may have been passed noon, but it was still too early for this kind of shit.

He gently shook Victor, “Vie? Hey, Vie! Get up now, common, it's time to get up.”

The other made an exhausted humming sound in response and rolled over. Belch took up the blankets with in his large and square fists. He yanked em back and away quick and harsh. Victor, who'd been lying half under them half over them, rolled off the bed and onto the floor, waking up with a start and Belch’s thick laughter.

“Im up!” He shouted, sitting up right instantaneously. He looked around, having expected to find himself in either his closet of a room or the tool shed again but was blessed with neither of these familiar places. He half expected his mom to be standing over him with a kettle in her hand or a wooden spoon. The other half expected another on if her boyfriends. He was pleasantly surprised to be in the company of one other than Belch. 

He laughed off the initial panic and ran a hand through his messy blond hair. “Jeezum, Belch. Hey, you got any idea what time it is?”

“It's about half past one, now get up!” 

Victor rubbed the sleep from his eyes and obeyed the order. Belch threw on the closest pair of jeans he could find and lead Vic out of the house to meet Henry (and regrettably Patrick) at the train yard. 

As the two left the house, Bill had herded up his crew and put them all on bikes. He, Ben, and Richie rode together on his silver. Bev and Mike shared Richie’s bike, Eddie had Georgie riding on his. It was a cramped and tiring ride, but they'd all made it up to the hospital nevertheless. They parked their bikes around the back with the mere hopes that they wouldn't get snatched up and ran inside. 

Stan slept soundly, albeit his face said otherwise, upon a narrow and thin bed. White sheets blanketed him and a family of wires fell from his arms and clung to bags, machines, and whatever else. His parents both sat in two uncomfortable looking chairs besides the bed and grinned lightly upon seeing the band of friends. Without exchanging a word, the two left, leaving the eight alone.

Bill stared at Stan, his Stan, and felt his heart cry. A tight hand caught him by thé throat and he was unable to speak even if he wanted to. He looked so pale.

Eddie was patently explaining what every machine did, what every moving line was measuring, what Stan’s vitals were (and what vitals meant) to Georgie and Richie, who neither understood any of it. 

The doctors were running tests to try and figure out what exactly troubled the boy, but as of then, they figured he'd only gotten a stomach virus or was suffering from food poisoning. Possibly salmonella as his parents had informed the doctors that Mr. Uris never really was any good at cooking and they'd had chicken a couple nights ago. 

But Stan didn't have a stomach bug, more did he have salmonella. The others all wished this fact wasn't true, they wished it so hard they believed it. They believed that Stan was going to be ok. Only Bill really knew the truth. He didn't want to, but he simply couldn't ignore it. 

“The charts say he's steady, but his vitals keep dropping. It's a slow drop, but it's not stopping. If this keeps up…” Eddie trailed off, handing over the clipboard for Bill and the others to glance at.

“Eddie, what's wrong with him?”

“I don't know. I'm no doctor” 

A suffocating stillness filled the room, making everyone a tad bit uncomfortable. Mike picked up on what was happening first. 

“I have some money left. Georgie, why don't we go scope out that vending machine we saw on our way in?” 

He took the child by the hand and pulled him out of the room, shooting back a look towards the others, who One by one understood it and left with their own excuses. Bill was left alone with Stan. He watched the little machines and sighed.

“Y-you don't have to go yet. There's s-s-st-still time you know.”

There wasn't. Stanley knew that there wasn't. He knew what was going to happen within the next week and he knew that there was a way to help. It wasn't a fun way, but it had to be done. Someone had to do it. Of course he couldn't tell this to Bill. He wasn't even in that same hospital room. There was no time to come back. 

“We luh-luh-love you, Stan. I love you. You don't have to g-go. You c-c-c-can stay a while longer.”

He couldn't. He wouldn't. He was already pushing it. But how could he ever get Bill to understand? Bill moved to sit on the bed and fidget with the cold and thin blankets.

“We’ll be lost without you.”

Eddie was their navigator. They'd always have a map and compass with him. 

“We’ll be sad without you.”

Richie was the jokester. They'd always be clutching at their stomachs in no time at all.

“We’ll be weaker without you.”

Beverly was their muscle. She’d always have their backs no matter what.

“We'll be dumb without you.”

Mike was the rains of the group. If there was a fact you needed, he'd have it. 

“We’ll be falling without you.”

Ben was their shelter. He'd always be there to offer a wall to fall back on, a roof to protect them, and a floor to hold them.

“We’ll be nothing without you.”

Bill was their everything. Without him, there'd be no loser’s club at all. He was the main rope tying them all together. 

Stan wasn't this god Bill built him up to be. Not quite. He was their eyes. He could see farther and better than all of them. But just as the body can adapt to the loss of its sight, Stan could rest assured knowing that the group could too. The world might seem scarier, sadder, and more dull than before, but they would get used to it and start noticing things that their eyesight had blinded them to before. Sounds would be sharper. Smells would be stronger. Touch would be more sensitive. They'd be able to better taste trouble in the air. They would adapt. 

Bill knew this too. He gave Stan a hug. He was terrified that this would be the last he'd be able to give and wanted more than anything that Stan would return the gesture. But he didn't. A tear threatened Bill’s eye and he allowed it to fall. 

“Don't go yet. Please don't go.” 

No amount of begging could pull Stanley back. No tears could carry him from that cave. Bill was helpless, hapless, and hopeless. He wiped the tears from his cheeks with the heel of his palm and snuggled a bit. It was hardly a goodbye, but it was the best he could give considering the fact that he didn't eat to. He clutched onto Stan’s hand and gave it a squeeze. He held on to him for as long as he could before climbing to his feet to join the others. He was sure his parents would want to be with him for this. 

“I love you,” he whispered. That would probably remain as Bill’s greatest regret in life. He should have told Stan he loved him sooner. He should have…

Mr and Mrs. Uris rushed into the room and the thought was knocked from Bill’s mind. He watched the two envelope their boy in their arms and whispered their own pleads that also went unheard. Bill could bear the sight no longer. He turned and left. 

The trainyard was often occupied by trains and Eddie Kasprak. But today, Eddie was away visiting Stan in the hospital, and in his place was none other than Henry and his ragtag bunch of friends. 

If there was one place that happened to have an overabundance of bottles, it was there. They'd hadn’t been there for more than three seconds when jeudi already counted sixteen. There was a crate of them.

“Henry, what are we doing?” Patrick asked rather annoyed. He hated it when Henry didn't tell him. Hated it a lot! He'd pestered Henry the entire walk here and had been entirely unable to draw forth an answer. If Henry didn't answer soon, someone might end up getting hit! 

“Shut up an’ I’ll show you,” Henry hissed through his teeth. 

He took up the crate of bottles and began to set them up in a line. Belch, Victor, and Patrick watched on in dead silence. Finally, one Henry had decided that everything was perfect, he turned to the others with a wide, toothy grin. He pulled out his father’s pistol and a small ammo box.

“Target practice,” he sang. 

Both Belch and Patrick were ecstatic, however, Victor was a tad bit nervous. Accidents happen all the time with guns. He eyed Patrick nervously. 

Everyone knew Patrick was crazy. He believed that he was the only real person. He was grabby, had no real respect for others, and always looked at him in a really unwelcomed way. He did it trust that boy with a gun. Hell, he didn't trust that boy with a pillow!

Patrick reached giddily for the gun. Henry snatched it out of his reach. “My gun, I get first round.” Patrick stared at Henry for a moment then smiled. That was ok, he'd decided. That was fair. He took several steps back to show this. 

Victor’s mind began to work and fast. He played the entire scene over in his head and frowned. “Target practice?” 

“Well yeah. Can't very well shoot at them stupid little shits-”

“Henry,” Victor interrupted instantly. He kept his voice level and calm. Motherly. “We can't shoot at the kids, Henry.”

“If we don't kill em then I don't see the problem!”

“What would your father do to you if he got a call from Officer Nells? Imagine how that would go down. Mr. Bowers? Yeah, I got seven kids claiming that your son was shootin’ at ‘em. What do you think your old man would do?”

Henry was quiet a moment. He hadn't thought about that. Suddenly he was angry at Victor for making him think it and yet thrilled that he did, cause he really could have gotten into a lot of trouble. 

“Alright, then, we won't shoot at the kids. But I still like how target practice sounds. Sounds like we’re doing this with a purpose, you know?”

This Victor could accept. He gave an approving nod and let the others have their fun shooting at glass bottles. He was happy with this, just as long as no one got hurt. They shot at bottles until nightfall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now that all the dominos are set, we can finally get this story moving!


	4. Four

Losing someone who means the world to you is a terribly tragic and tragically terrible thing to ever have to experience. Those of you who have been lucky enough not to know such loss, you cannot possibly imagine it. So I will take the time and try to explain it as best as I can. Though let it be known right here and now that what I'm about to describe is nothing compared to the real thing.

Losing a loved one is like walking home in the dark of a winter’s midnight. There's ice beneath your feet, and your shoes are full of slush. You're cold. You're wet. You're scared. You're alone. There's no light to guide you. And no one is around to hear you if you scream. That loved one was the warmth of a summer’s afternoon you thought would never end. They were the refreshing lemonade your mom makes for you and your fiends. They were the smell of the barbecue, the sight of the fireworks, the laughter of the children, and the barking of dogs. They were the smile that holds your lips high and the sparkle in your eye. Losing them is like switching from that heavenly place of peace to this winter wasteland. You're memory of how you got here is faint. You're not sure where you're going any more. And with every step you take it only gets colder, darker, and you feel more alone than ever. 

Losing someone is listening to your favorite song but it's playing from another room and you can't even recognize it anymore. You know what it is, but just barely. There's hardly a way for you to tell it's even a song. And you long for it, wish to sing along to it, and the second you open your mouth...it stops. And somehow you know that would be the last time you'll ever hear it again.

That's what it's like to lose a loved one. 

I am devastated to tell you that such a feeling was sure to follow a great number of times from this sentence and on. If you came to read a cute story about a pure and sweet summer friendship, then clearly this wasn't the story for you. I am glad to inform you however that a sweet summer friendship is in fact the hero of this tale and will let you know right here and now that this will not just all be sorrow and loss. No storms last forever.

However, I must shatter that bubble of hope I just gave you by informing you that the storm Stanley saw before he fell into the water's had finally arrived, and it was no small thing.

I once got into a rather heated argument with a very ill tempered florist (a fight that unfortunately did lead to my most unpleasant stay in a hospital with the the world's worst cut made by a rose’s thorn you ever did see) about why we shouldn't pick the prettiest flowers. I'm sure you've heard the saying a couple times in your lives; that god takes the best people just as we take the prettiest flowers. I must argue against that. Please don't throw a rose bouquet at me.

I will try to leave god out of this as much as possible, but the aforementioned phrase about people and flowers really bothers me. There might be such a thing as fate, a term which here means; you have no fucking choice in fucking anything! There might not. Sometimes things happen because one was at a place at a time in which other things were happening. Was it a chain reaction? Who knows! Point of the matter is, whether or not there was an outside deity involved in the events to happen remains to me as yet another unsolved mystery on my list. 

But one thing was for certain: Stan was where he knew he was supposed to be. The figure was besides him, its voice growing weaker with every passing lyric, and he knew that some force beyond him was at work. It wasn’t so much that he knew as it was a feeling. 

Everyone gets those feelings, those strange feelings of intuition. Stan got them more often than others (though perhaps that was to make up for how short his life would be compared to most). 

The figure had lead countless people from the river to the end of the cave. One day, if it had been a day, time doesn't move here, the figure let Stan give it a try. The boy was hesitant at first, but he differed that since he'd been able to handle Betty, he could handle anything. Hold this thought. 

I must remind you, dear readers, that while time had not yet passed for Stan, a week had passed for the rest of the world. It had not been a kind one, either.

Bill could hardly part Stan’s side. He spent many nights perched upon an uncomfortable plastic chair reading Stan’s bird book aloud. The doctors and nurses learned Bill by name better than they did Stanley. He hardly slept, barely ate, and couldn't bear the thought of leaving a second earlier than what was allowed. 

And with their fearless leader cooped up inside the hospital with their all seeing eye, the rest of the group felt lost and odd. There was an itch in their minds they just couldn't get rid of and a weight on their backs they were getting tired of carrying. 

Mike spent most of the week with Beverly and Georgie. Mike loved Georgie, more than almost anything else on the whole wide world. Georgie was sweet and innocent and still learning. He was the little brother Mike just didn't have and never knew he wanted so badly. He happily went out of his way to show the child everything. Beverly was thrilled to tag along. Together, the group went to explore the barrens where they'd built their dam. It was gone now. Officer Nells made them take it down. But it's ghost still haunted the water. A rusted car door lay not too far from the dams remains. 

Richie, Ben, and Eddie had been left to their own devices. Most of these devices included helping Ben with the making their clubhouse better. Ben often stayed inside the thing, he was determined to find a way to keep it from flooding and keep it comfortable at the same time. He'd send Richie and Eddie on supply runs. While they were gone, his whole focus was on the steadiness of his hands at work. The hole he'd made was no good if the water never reached it. So he built a small guiding ridge to help direct the possible flood water. The hole lead to a small man made pond about three yards off. He'd decorated that, too, in the hopes of making it look as natural as could be. And for the most part, he'd done a phenomenal job. 

The storm Stan saw finally reached the land, and its first lightning bolt struck! Right at the corner of Jackson and Lloyd. 

Richie and Eddie were walking down the street. Eddie was struggling to carry a strangely colored carpet larger than himself in both arms like an infant. He staggered with every step. Richie had just barely managed to balance more nails, staples, a rusted nail gun, and a large booklet of sand paper in his arms. All who saw them gave them questioning looks. But none more so than Henry Bowers, who’d spotted the two about a block back when he'd run to fetch Belch and Victor for their day’s worth of trouble making.

Now, let it be known that this very same morning, Mrs. Criss’s new boyfriend, Stevie, had told Mrs. Criss that she ought to send her boy off to camp before it was too late. She disagreed, this being perhaps the most motherly thing she'd ever done for her son in years. Stevie got mad and then began attacking the both of them. Mrs. Criss had sent Victor out so that she could deal with the break up without distraction. When Vie met up with the others, his mind was far from the thought of summer fun with friends. He was thinking about how he was scared to go back home. What if she didn't dump him? What if he got into her head? What then? But Victor would not have to be worrying about that, not for long. He'd soon have a much bigger issue on his plate to chew.

He hadn't noticed when they'd stopped heading to the junk yard and started following the two kids. He didn't hear a word Henry was saying and missed every single one of Belch’s questions. He couldn't remember when Patrick suddenly joined them. 

He only woke up when he heard the ear shattering scream of the Kaspbark kid when he'd fallen and ate the sidewalk. Suddenly, as if by magic, he returned to the world with the help of Patrick’s really unsettling laughter. He then saw everything. 

Richie had dropped his supply to make sure Eddie hadn't broken his nose and Belch was running at him at Henry’s silent demand. Patrick was reaching for the nail gun. Victor was nervous. He made no move to help with this assault. 

“What have the queers got for us today?” Henry shouted. He kicked Eddie aside with a sickening thud and stared down at the carpet in pure disgust. While I, personally, disagree with most of what Henry likes, I must say that the look he made was exactly the look any sane person should have cast upon that hideous monstrosity posing as a rug! 

“God, this thing is about as pretty as Belch!” Belch inwardly frowned at the insult but said nothing. It was true. “I've seen dead animals more appealing! Let's see if we can make it better.” 

He glanced at Patrick and gave a quick nod. Patrick was suddenly overwhelmed with joy. He held up the nail gun and fired it once into the air. Richie, who still stood pinned in Belch’s meaty arms, began to squirm for his life. 

“I've seen you in church every now and again. You believe in Jesus, child?” He asked. His tongue rested between his teeth, his nostrils flared, his eyes bulged. He tugged one of Richie’s arms forward, forcing his palm up towards the sky against his elbow’s wishes. He placed the bolt of the nail gun against his hand. Richie instinctively pulled his fingers into a tight fist.

Eddie lept to his feet with a shriek and lunged at Henry. He wasn't sure what he was doing exactly, but he was gonna do it anyway! He jut out his elbow, lowered his head, and threw all of his weight into the bastard’s side, throwing him to the ground. Henry let out a groan of pain and erupted in a barbaric rage.

Patrick forgot about Richie. The nailgun was I where near him any more. He watched in great anticipation at the scene about to unfold. Someone was going to bleed. A lot. And no one was going to stop them.

“You're dead, Kaspbark!” 

There are ten things that are going to happen. Ten things that will take the slow pace of this story and rip it apart. Ten things that mark the end of introduction and the beginning of our tale. Feel free to count them with me to keep me honest. 

Number one: Eddie has had regrets before in his life, this fact is undeniable, but shoving Henry Bowers was not one of them. And when Henry decided his doom, he held no fear. He took a fighter’s stance and his heart began to run wild in his chest. He watched with careful eyes as Henry got to his feet, seething with hatred. Eddie knew he should be terrified but he was perfectly calm. His little fists clenched tightly together.

Number two: Richie knew that his big mouth was always what got him into trouble. There were days where he was scared it would end his life, but this time he knew that it could save a life instead. Without hesitation or warning, he let out a mighty shout, “Lay a hand on him and I’ll cut off the rest of your micro-penis, I swear to god, Bowers!” Bleach had to stifle a laugh at that. Richie could feel his shake a bit and a confident smile graced his features. But it was a mask. Unlike Eddie, Richie was fucking terrified.

Number three: Henry always let his anger get the best of him. He was blinded by a strong blood lust. He tore the nail gun from Patrick’s hand and grinned at the Tozier boy. “Let's see if you’ll keep your word.” He turned with uncharacteristic stealth and began to March towards Eddie, who still refused to move. Not without Richie.

Number four: Belch was slow at times, and regrettably loyal to Henry, but even Belch knew that this wasn't going to end well. With every step Henry took, his heart began to both drop and speed up. Henry was nuts! He released Richie with the hopes that the kid could be the hero in this moment. 

Number five; Patrick sensed Belch’s weakness years ago. He could see the signs of it a mile away. He cast one glance towards the others and he knew that Belch was about to chicken out. Before Richie could stumble one step forward, he caught the kid. He pulled him into a headlock and forced the boy to watch helplessly as Henry advanced on Eddie.

Number six; Henry stopped walking and dove into a full on sprint. He effortlessly threw Eddie into the ground. Eddie managed to strike a punch as he fell. If he was going down, then he'd make damn sure he was going down with a fight. Furious, belch returned the punch, landing his fist in the side of Eddie’s head. For a second, Eddie heard nothing but a high pitched ring and the world spun around so wild he couldn't see Henry’s face in front of his own. He could only feel the cold pressure of the nail gun pressed snug between his eyes and he grit his teeth but didn't know what to do. His arms are pinned at his side by Henry’s knees. The boy was sitting on his chest making it hard to breathe. And one thought flashed through his mind.

“I'm going to die.”

Number seven; Victor saw that this was going to end bloodily the moment Patrick gave up the nail gun. The world had been moving in slow motion but it was gradually growing faster. For a second, he could see into the future. He saw Henry killing Eddie then Richie breaking free to kill Henry but failing, and ending up dead as well. He saw the trouble that they'd all be in. That was it! Victor knew that it was time he drew the line! His voice rose above the chaos loud and shrill. He strode over in long and fast steps and was at Henry’s side in a matter of half seconds. “Henry, you're going too far! Henry you said we wouldn't shoot them! Henry-!”

Number eight: Henry shoved Victor aside. This would be perhaps the worst thing Henry had ever done to his friend and he would no doubt live to regret this moment for the rest of his painfully long life. Henry had never meant to hurt his friends. It was a rare thing for people to get to know him and then stay by his side like these freaks did. He would never risk losing that. Besides, hurting Victor was like punching your mom in the face. But he was mad, and didn't have time for Victor’s morals. 

Victor lost his footing and fell into the street. He landed on his elbows and found that he could no longer feel his fingers. He willed himself to get up and try once more to save Eddie, thus saving them all. He never had the chance. He wasn't even able to get up when-

Number nine; No one saw the car. Eddie was on his back, shutting his eyes and bravely waiting for death to take him away. Richie couldn't turn his head. He didn't want to. He was begging Henry to stop. Belch was staring wide eyed unable to comprehend what he was watching. Patrick was having too much fun watching his best friend attempt to slaughter the Kaspbark brat. None of them saw the car that came speeding around the corner in uneven swerves. It's headlights on despite the time of day. No one saw the car.

Number ten; it all happened so suddenly. There was only this-this sound and then it was all over. Victor saw the headlights bathe him in white only seconds before the pain. The thud was the sound of the metal colliding with his shoulder, shattering the bones instantly. He was hit so hard he was sent flying forty seven feet away. He landed funny, his ribs caving in, his arm snapping, his ankle disconnecting from its tendons, the skin of his cheek was ripped apart, and a strangled scream was the only sound he was able to make, and then he was silent. That was when everything stopped.

Time stopped too, for a brief moment. Belch could have sworn that somewhere in the far distance, he heard the sad chime of a hollow funeral bell and before he knew it, tears were cascading down his cheeks. He saw nothing. He didn't see Henry’s jaw drop and eyes widen. He didn't see Patrick’s discontent look. He didn't see the look of pure shock and terror on Richie’s face. He only saw Victor laying horrendously still in the street as the red car sped off. It never stopped. 

There was no sound. Only his heart was able to replace the silence with muffled thuds, slow and loud in his chest. He bolted from his spot and ran to his side, collapsing in a heap at Victor’s side. He pulled his friend into his arms and searched desperately for any signs of life. They were there, thank god they were there, the pulse, his breathing, it was all there but it was all so faint!

Henry leapt up from on the ground, freeing Eddie as he did so. He dropped the nail gun and steadily moved to join Belch at Victor’s side. For the first time in his life, he felt genuine and undeniable fear. He took Victor’s hand in his and felt what was left of his own heart snap. He stared down at the mess that was his friend. 

Patrick was in so much shock he forgot about Richie and Eddie. The boy flew from his grasp and ran to Eddie, eager to get him up and get them both to safety. They could forget the supplies for now, Ben would just have to understand! He glanced back over his shoulder and felt a strange sense of pity. Victor wasn't like the others. He was still a dick, no doubt, but not as bad as the others. But he couldn't stay to see if the boy was still alive. If he wasn't, Henry would make sure that neither Richie or Eddie remained alive as well. And with that in mind, he rid himself of the thought of his tormentors and took Eddie by the hand to drag him away from the scene.

Victor stared up at the sky. He knew he was in pain, agony even, but was unable to figure out where it was coming from. There was just intense heat developing around him. He couldn't breathe. His lungs felt heavier than usual. Suddenly two shadows overtook his sight and he was able to recognize them despite the complete lack of shape and color. Friends. They were his friends. Belch and Henry. 

“Vie? Vie, look at me-” Belch spoke soft and light. His voice trembled as sobs threatened to overtake him. 

Victor tried to smile. He couldn't remember what had happened. He couldn't remember his mother sending him out. He couldn't remember the car. He could only remember the fact that he loved his friends and that they were both right there with him. Henry needed some work, but with time and patience, they'd get him to smile again. Belch needed a mind of his own, but his undying love and loyalty was a rare trait to find amongst men and that made up for it. Hell, even Patrick, as gross as he was, had his good days. 

“Henry,” he spoke, slowly remembering. Henry nodded and squeezed Victor’s hand to let him know he was there. “Henry you can't- you can't...you were going too far...you were crossing a line, Henry. You said we wouldn't. You said-” he stopped talking only to choke. 

One of the ribs that had broken had plunged deep into the soft tissue of his lung and blood began to flow thick and heavy inside. The coughing refused to die down. He took his hand from Henry and placed it gently in Belch’s cheek, unable to speak to him but wanting to show compassion all the same. His hand fell after a while, heavy and limp. He smiled one last time and took a shuddering breath, but never quite finished it. And like that, the lights went out in his eyes. 

Victor Criss died.

Henry had lost two motherly figures in his life now. He blamed himself for both. Henry had rarely ever felt grief and loss. It was so rare for such a thing to ever happen in his life. He didn't know what to do or what was happening. All he knew was that he was weeping heavily. He was shaking with every gagged sob. He took Victor’s hand back in his and held it, desperate to feel even the faintest twitch. But there was nothing. And that alone only made him cry harder.

Belch stared down, lost in his own form of agony. He found that it was no longer a warm, summer afternoon. It was the dead of winter, in the dead of night, and he was wandering, lost in the streets with the ghost of his favorite song cutting out, and somehow knowing that he'd never again get to hear its melody. He let out a tormented scream that ripped apart the sky and echoed back at him several times. It scared the birds from their perches and they quickly clouded the sky, blocking out the sun. 

It was so dark in that moment, you couldn't possibly have believed that it was mid day. A chill doomed them all. And while it was Henry and Belch weeping messily over the cooling body of their beloved friend, it had been Patrick who'd snapped in a strange way. 

He did adore Victor. He hated his morals at times, yes, but at the same time, he'd never met another quite like him. He adored him almost as much as he loved Henry. Hell, maybe even more! He turned from the sight, fearing that he'd puke if he didn't, and watched the two who caused all of this in the first place run off. They'd done this! They killed Victor! They'd pay for this. He'd make them pay for this! 

Time had indeed stopped for Stan. Who knew how much of it had passed in that single second. All Stan knew was that it was his turn to lead one of the lights to the end of the cave. The light stood before him now and the sight of it actually saddened Stan a bit. Slowly, he stepped towards it with a hand outstretched and welcoming, something he never thought he'd do. And Victor took it gently. Stan let out a shaky breath and glanced back at the figure, who gave him an encouraging nod. 

Stan offered Victor a warm smile and the two made their way up the hill. Stan was expecting to see the hole he'd fallen in through but that had vanished. Before him now was a train station. A train was waiting, a bell boy hanging from one of the open doors waving his hand frantically. Stanley lead Victor towards him and helped him up the step. The entire time he was struck with a sense of surrealism. As if none of this was actually happening but it was and he knew it was. The same way you know where your eyes are. The bell boy welcomed Victor professionally and took over from there. 

Victor was then handed over three things. A certificate, much like a birth certificate, a passport, and an ID card. He'd gently been warned not to lose them, as he'd need them later. Stanley was unable to hear what for, cause the train let out a sharp whistle and the monster of a thing began to move. 

Stan watched amazed as the trail rolled away and vanished from sight, taking with it one of his tormentors. He turned back to face the figure. But it was gone. Stantly had passed the final test, and it could finally lay itself to rest knowing that the river of purgatory would be in safe and controlled hands.

Just as the ambulance dispatched from the hospital to go and collect Victor’s fresh remains, Stanley's heart monitor began to scream out. Bill awoke with a start. He stared at the monitor, having momentarily forgotten what it measured or what it meant when it screamed. And like the snap of his fingers, it all came rushing back to him. He bolted from his chair and began shouting desperately for a nurse. Two ran to assist him. 

They'd tried all that they could, but not even the defibulators could change the flatlining heart rate. They'd cast Bill out as they worked. He stood anxiously in the waiting room pacing back and forth waiting for them to come and fetch him and tell him the good news. When they did go get him, the news had been far from good. 

Fate had taken two on that day. Was there a reason? If there was, Henry, Belch, Patrick, and Bill couldn't not see it. Neither Victor nor Stan had been the prettiest of flowers either, so why bother taking them? Why? They just couldn't understand. Now their world was void of light, color, warmth, and music. They were left to wonder if they'd ever get it back to normal. 

Not all. Patrick knew that he'd bring back light and color. It was just going to cost the lives of two little shit heads who'd taken the light from his world. There would be light again.


End file.
